


Fierce Pleasures

by Galena



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Gen, Mind Games, Mood Whiplash, Verbal Sparring, also physical sparring, differing political opinions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 21:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2362982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galena/pseuds/Galena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Decepticon-who-says-he-isn't and the Autobot-voted-most-likely-to-defect aren't looking for friends. But a worthy sparring partner? Possibly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fierce Pleasures

**Author's Note:**

> I asked my much more politically-savvy 'amica endura' for advice on fleshing out some of the political perspectives in this fic. Thank you, dear, for only rolling your eyes a little bit when I told you my interest was all for giant alien robot reasons.
> 
> (Also: pangolin-tongue!Whirl remains my favourite "how-does-Whirl-eat/drink" head canon.)

 

Whirl scooched his back further up the wall. His right ankle had been hanging together tenuously as he trudged back to the _Lost Light_ , and five minutes ago, it had finally collapsed. So here he was standing on his left leg, leaning against the wall in medibay, mangled right foot propped back to balance him, watching people. It was the lamest victory party Whirl could imagine. He was exhausted, sure, but he should at least be having a drink.

Most of the other patients waiting in the medibay had found a place to sit. By the time Whirl arrived, even the floor was precious real estate. He wasn't damaged badly enough to merit immediate attention, so he was left to wait. And wait.

And now that he couldn't even hobble around to change the scenery, the waiting was becoming unbearable boredom. He tossed a quick glance around the room, looking for a distraction.

As if the universe itself was leery about letting Whirl become too bored, First Aid burst out of the surgical suite just as Ratchet, Chromedome, and Cyclonus barged through medibay's outer doors pushing a covered stretcher. Whirl perked up. The medics met, exchanged a rapidfire series of words that made almost no sense, and disappeared together with the stretcher into the surgical suite. Chromedome hesitated, then exited medibay, leaving Cyclonus standing alone in the middle of the anteroom.

“That Tailgate?” asked Whirl after a moment. “Is he dead?”

Cyclonus turned to him, weaving unsteadily on his feet. “No,” he said. “No. He...” The jet pressed a hand to his chest and screwed up his face in discomfort. “He's unconscious.”

Whirl cocked his head. “You actually did it? It ac-ac-actually worked?”

Cyclonus nodded once and took a careful step in Whirl's direction. “The medics are not pleased with the methodology,” he wheezed, “but the result is... is good.” He took up a place against the wall beside Whirl. Other patients exchanged wary looks. Cyclonus ignored them. He turned his head and nodded again. “Thank you, Whirl.”

Whirl shrugged. “You make that sword do some cra-cra-crazy scrap.” He clicked his broken heel against the wall in a loose rhythm. “So, one of the Circ-c-ckle of Light bots told me you didn't actually k-kill Star Saber. What's up with that?”

“What's wrong with your voice?”

“I got stabbed in the throat after you took-k-k-k off. Damaged my vocalizzzzer. Thanks for that, by the way.”

Cyclonus folded his arms over his chest. “Star Saber teleported away before I could finish him. I only damaged him.”

“Well, I hope you made it hurt-t-t at least.”

Cyclonus smiled thinly and tapped his one remaining horn. “Right in the eye.”

Whirl's optic widened. “Ha! Didja tell him Primussszzz ordained it?”

“He was too busy screeching about it to hear me.”

“Dunno what his problem is. He's got a spare one.”

Both of them snickered and the other patients edged just a little further away.

* * *

 

Whirl hadn't meant to follow him home and he didn't think Cyclonus meant to let him either. They just ended up there, after First Aid finished their repairs, and now they were standing side by side in Cyclonus' hab suite, both suddenly, comically aware of their proximity and lack of overt hostility.

Whirl rolled his shoulders and edged away from Cyclonus; not toward the door, though- that would imply some kind of concession. “Frikkin' First Aid,” he grumbled. “Three and a half hours of repairs. First thing he does is turn my vocalizer off and it's the _last_ thing he fixed.” Whirl prowled across the space and flopped down on one of the recharge slabs.

“I can't imagine why,” said Cyclonus. He didn't move, only folded his arms and fixed Whirl with a stoic expression. _Standing his ground,_ Whirl interpreted.

“That was _rude_ of him.”

Cyclonus cocked his head. “When was the last time someone was nice to you?”

Whirl gave a mirthless chuckle. “I don't need people being _nice_ to me.”

“Oh please. You wouldn't have been following me around, trying to wheedle out a reason for me to spare your life, if you didn't care about people being nice to you.”

Whirl sat up to meet the challenge. “You know Cyclonus, there's a difference between being _nice_ to people and not _killing_ them. You've got one fragged-up world-view if you think that's the same thing.”

“It is perversely fascinating to hear you describe your own issues so frankly and yet act on your knowledge so ineptly.”

Whirl paused, optic narrowed. “Yeah? Well, your _face_ is perversely fascinating.” Before the jet could react, Whirl reached over and poked the tip of one claw into the space in Cyclonus' cheek. “What is even the point of these?”

Cyclonus snatched Whirl's hand away. “Buccal intakes for my cooling system. Keep your claws to yourself.”

“Sheesh. Touchy.” Whirl shifted away and leaned back against the wall. _I call that a draw._ “Anyway, plenty of people are nice to me. Rung's nice.”

“He's obligated to be nice to you by his profession.”

“Shows what you know about psychiatrists. Rung's obligated to try and understand me and, like, fix me or whatever, but nice? Have you ever _been_ in therapy, Horn-head? I didn't think so. Maybe you should try it.” Whirl paused to let the implication of that statement sink in but Cyclonus' expression never wavered. “Why'd you ask, anyway? Feeling unappreciated?”

“Morbid curiosity,” said Cyclonus. He got up, walked to a storage locker in the corner, and opened it. “How did my Cybertron ever spawn the likes of you?” he muttered.

Whirl watched Cyclonus retrieve a bottle and two glasses from the locker. “Your Cybertron? Are you serious? You _left_. For _six million years._ ”

“Six million years trapped in the Dead Universe!” snapped Cyclonus.

“Yeah? Well, you missed the war. You missed the scrap leading up to the war. You missed the slagging Functionists.” Whirl's optic contracted. “ _Your_ world...ha!”

Cyclonus poured a finger of liquid into each glass, frowning. He downed one in a single gulp, poured again, then handed the other glass to Whirl, who received it with some trepidation.

“The Cybertron I remember was a world of promise, a waxing power in the galaxy. It wasn't-” Cyclonus gestured curtly with one hand, “-that broken, feral thing.”

“Spoken like someone who never took a wrong turn in the Dead End at night.” Whirl everted his long mesh tongue and lapped at the engex. Cyclonus did not bother to hide his revulsion.

“It was not without it's problems.”

“Not _your_ problems, though. Right, Mr. Tetrahexian-Real-Estate?” Whirl reclined on the slab, one leg crossed over the other, heel bouncing with restless tension. “Tell me about that. Primal Vanguard. Crew on the Ark-1. That's some fancy stuff. They wouldn't've let someone like me anywhere near that sort of outfit.”

Cyclonus watched him for a moment, glass forgotten in his grip. “What are you saying?”

Whirl pounced on the question. “You love your memory of Cybertron because it was good to you. It wasn't good to everyone.”

“And you have no love, at all, for your homeworld?” asked Cyclonus.

Whirl shrugged. “I've spent as much time on other planets as I did on Cybertron.”

“That isn't what I asked.”

“I don't know,” said Whirl. “Why are you so attached to it?”

“It is our home!”

“Well, right now, it's not. The _Lost Light_ is.”

“It's where you come from, where you were born. Do you feel no kinship at all, no loyalty?”

Whirl sat up. That wasn't verbal sparring anymore; that was a direct, personal assault. Whirl weighed his response for a moment. “Look, Cyc, it's hard to feel loyalty to a place that chewed me up and left me for dead. Do I miss Cybertron? No, because hardly anything good ever happened to me there.”

“Surely you're exaggerating.”

“A little. But that's not the point. The planet itself is- is whatever. It's a planet. But I don't pine for the good old days like you do because there weren't any- many- for me.”

Cyclonus held his gaze for a moment, irritatingly unreadable, then resumed staring into his drink. “Cybertron was supposed to be a guiding light in the galaxy, not a cautionary tale.” He skimmed his lips across the rim of the glass, frowning.

“Well, you can't always get what you want.” Whirl wasn't sure who was winning anymore.

Cyclonus looked up, optics narrowed. “No. You can't. But you lot could have tried not to lose everything important about our way of life, our _world_ , in the course of your war.”

“ _Lost_ it? No. No, no, no, you've got it backwards.” Whirl jabbed a claw at Cyclonus, suddenly vehement. “Your _old Cybertron_ took the things I appreciated and stomped all over them! The war gave me new things. The war appreciated _me_.”

Cyclonus scoffed. “War only appreciates what it requires- weapons and bodies. Six million years in the Dead Universe and I return to find Cybertron _stagnant-_ ”

“Stagnant, yeah, that's what I'd call six million years of technological advancement-”

“- _weapons_ technology!”

“-and exploration-”

“-in the name of relentless resource acquisition! And better ways to repair battle damage but preventative medicine still where it was when I left-” Cyclonus was ticking points off on his fingers, “-rampant atheism-”

“-so society changed a bit while you were away; what do you expect-”

“-something of ourselves to remain in our culture but everything I see is borrowed- art, music, even pieces of language- even this ship-!”

“- we were a little busy trying to make sure there'd _be_ something left for you to return home to!” snarled Whirl. He was on his feet now, newly-rebuilt stabilizers hiked up and vibrating with emotion he hadn't meant to feel.

“And there was something,” said Cyclonus quietly, gazing at him with coiled, predatory attention. “But it isn't home.” Whirl shifted from foot to foot, waiting, but Cyclonus didn't continue, didn't strike. He relaxed and tossed back the rest of his drink, but didn't refill the glass immediately. Whirl sat down, confused.

“What do you remember of Cybertron?” Cyclonus said eventually. “Not the government or the bureaucracy or the war. Did you ever feel a connection to the world?”

Whirl reached for his drink and studied it for a moment, appearing genuinely thoughtful. “Just dumb stuff. Dawn. Clouds. Noises. How the surface changed all the time, between cities. Someone was always building something or changing something. Urban improvement. Lotsa construction barricades. Steam under halogen lamps at midnight.” He raised the glass but didn't drink. Cyclonus watched him, pensive.

“You sound like a grounder,” he sneered after a few seconds, “talking like that.”

Whirl didn't take the bait. “I got lost once. They were tearing up these two highways and I went one way and thought I was going the other way. It looked the same from above.”

Cyclonus took a little sip of his drink. “That's what I miss.”

“Getting lost?” Whirl laughed.

Cyclonus snorted. “No. Flying over it. Watching it take shape. Watching it adapt. A living thing, and we were part of it, little moving parts.”

“Too bad some of us 'little parts' didn't fit right. We had to get machined down to a more suitable shape.”

Whirl slurped at his drink and licked his sensor prongs, then, after making sure that Cyclonus was watching, everted his tongue a little further and licked around his optic housing.

“That's disgusting.”

“No one's forcing you to watch me.”

Cyclonus grunted and pointedly looked away. He refilled his own glass and then Whirl's, when he proferred it. “I miss climbing into the stratosphere to watch the sun rise before it did for anyone on the ground. And then descending as it came up, to see it rise again and again.” The jet took a healthy swig. “I miss that.”

“Sentimental old slagger,” said Whirl and Cyclonus grunted what might have been assent. “I miss Carbolls.”

“What?”

“Lousy Dead End street food. On a stick, totally bad for you.” He sighed through his dorsal intakes. “Primus knows what it was made out of. Stuff was _fantastic._ ”

Cyclonus didn't reply. He set his empty glass aside and passed Whirl the bottle, turning to gaze out at the black expanse beyond the window while Whirl economized his drinking and stuck his tongue all the way into the bottle. He was making an effort not to notice but he didn't ask for the bottle back either, so Whirl drained it.

“People aren't nice to me because I won't let 'em be,” Whirl declared finally, staring at the label. “Friends're like- they're like amateurs on the battlefield: unpredictable. Enemies- you know they wanna do something bad to you, but friends? They hurt you when you don't expect it, even when they're trying to be nice. So I don't let people be nice to me, if I can help it. Never works out in the end.”

Cyclonus cocked his head. “What are you doing here, then?”

“Drinking free engex.”

“It's not free.”

“What?”

“No, it's not free,” said Cyclonus. “Pay me with a shred of honesty.”

“I've been plenty honest with you.” More than he had meant to be, certainly.

“Why are you here?” Cyclonus asked. “Honestly. Answer that.”

“Why do you even care? You wanted to kill me for, like, months.”

Cyclonus' lip twitched. “You insulted me.”

“That's worth a death threat? Man, if I vowed to kill everyone who insulted me, I'd need an external storage unit just for the names.”

“I imagine you would.”

“You realize how stupid that is, promising to kill me over our little tiff?”

“You damaged my armour.”

“You got a few good dents in too. You wanna knock me out? Would that make you feel better?” Whirl mocked. Cyclonus glanced away again, lip curling in derision, and reached up absently to touch the broken stump of his left horn.

Whirl sat up. His optic dilated. “ _Ooooh_. Wait. Wait, I get it. You're one of those- those religious weirdos with the- the vow or whatever, who take physical damage really serious. Aren't you? _Yes._ Wow, and you never actually did get around to killing me. What were you gonna do, anyway? Were you gonna-” Whirl stopped abruptly and cocked his head. “Hold on. You got your face fixed. The clawmarks are gone.”

Cyclonus shifted his gaze sideways.

“But if you're supposed to keep your armour intact or whatever, were you gonna leave 'em on your face forever? You were, weren't you? If he died.”

“It's none of your concern.”

“Well, it's none of _your_ concern why I'm talking to you, then.” Whirl raised his helm triumphantly.

Cyclonus lurched to his feet abruptly and swiped the empty bottle from Whirl's grip. “Get out.”

Whirl recoiled, more out of surprise than real worry. “What gives? You can ask me for personal honesty but I can't ask you?” He leaned forward, getting into Cyclonus' space on purpose. “Sounds perfectly fair... in an antiquated, classist sort of way, right?”

“Out!” Cyclonus stabbed a talon toward the door, furious.

“Because I asked about your _face_? Get a grip, old man.” Whirl heaved himself to his feet. “Rhetorical question anyway. It's obvious how much the runt means to you,” he muttered as he left. More than anything, he felt _disappointment._

As the door slid shut behind him, Cyclonus made a furious hiss and slammed his fist against the slab.

* * *

 

Darkness helped ease Tailgate's blinded optics back into functional vision. The area around his slab was kept dim for his comfort and Cyclonus was welcome to sit beside him because his own optics did not put out an adverse wavelength.

“I started making a list of things I want to do,” Tailgate said. “Not big things, like being more heroic or getting into scrapes on purpose. I want to host movie night-”

Cyclonus groaned.

“-and I want to learn some hand-to-hand combat skills. I really want to see Cybertron again, someday. And I want to meet Orion Pax.”

“Optimus Prime.”

“I thought Swerve said he wants to be called Orion Pax now?”

“He left the planet to the NAILS. We can call him whatever we want.”

“I'm sure he'll come back to check on it now and then. Oh! I want to learn old Cybertronian, the sort that you speak. With proper inflections.”

Cyclonus smiled a little. “You will need to practice.”

“Yeah, but now I have time,” said Tailgate, optics brightening as he turned toward Cyclonus. “You gave me time.” He grasped Cyclonus' hand between his. “Thank you.”

Cyclonus shuttered his optics and slowly wrapped his other hand around Tailgate's small fists.

“Figured you'd be in here.”

Cyclonus turned, frowning at the interruption. “Whirl...”

“Don't worry, I'm not gonna ruin your moment. Here.” The helicopter held out a bottle of engex. Cyclonus didn't move.

“Oooh!” said Tailgate, then drew back warily. “Wait- why are you giving us presents?” He glanced at Cyclonus.

“It's not a present,” said Whirl. “It's payment for the one I helped you drink.”

Cyclonus hissed. “No. I told you the price.”

Whirl growled and lowered the bottle. “ _You_ kicked _me_ out, remember?”

“Kicked him out of where?” asked Tailgate.

“Your hab suite,” Whirl explained quickly, then bristled at Cyclonus. “You wanna know why I was hanging out with you? Cause I was _bored_.” He plunked the bottle down on the foot of Tailgate's medical slab and turned to go.

“Our hab suite?” said Tailgate uncertainly. “Why did you let him in?”

Whirl paused at the door. “Good question, Cyclonus. Why did you let me in?”

Cyclonus narrowed his optics at Whirl's silhouette. “I was bored.”

* * *

 

“So,” Cyclonus leaned back in his chair, “why're you an Autobot?”

Whirl stopped eating for a moment, or at least Cyclonus thought he did. It was hard to tell since Whirl didn't chew. Then he shrugged and continued shovelling food toward his nutritional intake. Across the table, Tailgate darted a worried look at Rung.

“Cause I am,” Whirl declared. “Why're you _not_ a Decepticon?”

“Cause I'm _not_. What did you do? Flip a coin?” Cyclonus reached for his glass.

“I got recruited.”

“And you never thought about switching sides?” asked Tailgate, curiosity getting the better of him.

“None of your business.”

“It seems to me that your derision for the old regime on Cybertron agrees more with the Decepticon mandate.” Cyclonus picked up a morsel of energon and popped it into his mouth. “Yet you were recruited into the Autobots.”

“Yup.”

“Cyclonus, I'm not sure if-” Rung began.

Cyclonus ignored him. “Then your faction has nothing at all to do with ideology?”

“Still not your business.”

“But it must,” Tailgate ventured. He hesitated, waiting for someone to interrupt him, then continued. “I mean, you believe that things should be a certain way, right? And the Autobot code addresses how those things should be brought about. If you call yourself an Autobot, you uphold the code with your actions. So you must believe in it.”

“Why's this important right now?” Whirl reached across the table, elbowing Tailgate's hand aside, and helped himself to a dish of dumplings. “Anyway, I'm wearing the badge. That's all the answer you need.”

“Is it-”

Rung put his hand on Tailgate's. “Leave it.”

Cyclonus' optics narrowed, but he sat back and turned his attention on Rung. “What about you? I saw you on Kimia.” He saw Rung flinch, an almost imperceptible reaction, and he suppressed a smile at both Rung's discomfort and the sudden tension in Whirl's shoulders. “That's the only reason I know you aren't a NAIL. Why don't _you_ wear a badge?”

“It doesn't fit very well,” Rung replied. He opened a compartment at his hip and removed a scuffed, slightly faded badge. It dwarfed the palm of his hand. “I believe in the Autobot cause- the end goals we are working to achieve. But perhaps more importantly, I believe in _how_ the Autobots work to further the cause.”

“'How'?” asked Tailgate. “I mean, what do you mean 'how'?”

“In the beginning, before the Decepticons became a militarized movement, I agreed with some of their mandate.”

Cyclonus cocked his head. “Indeed?”

“Yes, but the movement was disorganized,” Rung continued. “Their goals were admirable- in the beginning- but the strategies for achieving them were poorly defined. When the movement became militarized, it didn't matter if I agreed with them or not. I didn't want to support a violent regime change."

Cyclonus scoffed. “But you did.”

Rung nodded, frowning a little. "In the end. When it became a conflict, I chose the side that seemed more capable of effecting lasting change with a vestige of morality intact.”

“Forsaking your idealism,” said Cyclonus.

“Without regard for ideology,” said Whirl.

“Well, no, not entirely,” Rung continued. “I didn't feel that either side fully represented my expectations of society at large, however-”

“Reality rarely does,” said Cyclonus.

“Does what?” Skids asked, squeezing onto the bench beside Rung. “What're we talking about?”

“Choosing sides,” said Whirl. “Or not choosing, in Cyclonus' case.”

Skids made a face.

“Nice light topic,” he said and busied himself pouring a vibrant fuschia sauce over everything on his plate.

“Why are _you_ an Autobot, Skids?” asked Tailgate.

“Wait, wait, I've got this one,” said Whirl. He waited a beat: “He doesn't remember.”

He was roundly ignored.

“I became an Autobot,” Skids replied, “because I believed in ending corruption within the government, promoting equal rights for bots of all shapes and origins, etc.” He took a bite and pointed his spoon at Tailgate while he chewed. “Social responsibility. Personal and professional autonomy. Freedom of religion. A new system.”

"Another idealist. A 'new' system?" said Cyclonus, "Where you would replace a corrupt Prime with another Prime who was the product of a corrupt system?"

"The entire system wasn't corrupt,” said Rung gently. “Certain players, yes, but-"

"But not those you consorted with."

Skids set down his spoon and faced Cyclonus. "Yes, Cyclonus, I was part of _the system_ , from the very beginning. Some of us recognized the inequality in our culture and we sought to change it."

"While maintaining yourselves in positions of comfort and power," Whirl added. Cyclonus glanced at him

"While working within the system to effect positive change," Skids said.

Cyclonus snorted. "If you're working within the system, then you have no real desire to change it because it already works to your advantage."

Skids leaned forward on his elbows, food forgotten. "I was lucky, Cyclonus. And I know that. I ended up in a place where I was valued. Partly through serendipity, partly by skill, and I knew there were many, many people who didn't have my luck. But if you want to change the system, you have to change the _culture_ in which the system exists. You have to change the governing class-”

“You have to _replace_ the governing class-” Cyclonus broke in.

“Or do away with the very idea of class,” murmured Rung.

Skids continued. “Look, I wasn't the Minister of anything, or one of the representatives scheming in the Senate. I was a public servant. Still am. The people at the top come and go- by-elections and promotions and assassinations and scandals- but public service is forever. It's a good vantage to sit and watch and learn from.” He glanced around the table. “If you want to change the culture, you have to examine why the change you want to effect _hasn't happened yet_. And to do these things, you need to be able to see problems _within_ that people outside don't even know exist.”

“The lying and corruption were pretty evident, from what I learned,” said Tailgate.

“Sure, from a distance of 4 millions years. Back then, it was harder to see.” Skids gestured at Whirl. “Some people saw it because it had a direct impact on them. Some people, like Megatron, put it all the pieces together and realized the system was full of terrible flaws. But most people only saw glitches, little irritations that weren't enough to penetrate their status quo.” He paused and when no one immediately interrupted, he continued. “From the inside, you can find all the poorly-written laws and bureaucratic redundancies and other scrap that lets the corruption continue the way it does. You learn how to navigate the bureaucracy to make small changes. Enough small changes and the old structure becomes something new."

“A nudge gun instead of a sniper rifle!” said Tailgate, optics glowing behind his visor.

“Exactly,” said Skids.

"But how many centuries do you suppose that would have taken?" asked Cyclonus.

"As many as it needed." Skids frowned. He grabbed one of the open bottles of engex in the middle of the table and poured himself a glass. “I'm either not sober enough for this conversation, or not drunk enough. Rung? Back me up here.”

The psychiatrist thought for a moment. “Bureaucracy doesn't move fast, it's true, but that attenuates radicalism. The problem with the Decepticon vision of change _was_ the speed; it's easy to overthrow a government. But to build something new, something that will persist, doesn't just require imagination, it requires dedication- _real_ dedication- not just allegiance to a symbol or a single individual or an idealistic eventual goal. It's dedication to working out trivial problems that are part of a larger picture. That's why _changing_ the system is important, rather than tearing it down. You need people with Skids' experience working, every single day, being the _machinery_ of government, to complete the vision. Real revolution requires stamina.”  
“And Megatron never showed that dedication to executing his vision,” Skids finished and saluted his small friend with his glass.

Tailgate sat up again. “That's what you meant earlier, isn't it Rung? About choosing the side capable of making lasting change?”

Rung nodded. “Yes.”

“I dunno,” said Whirl, “four million years seems like a lot of dedication to me. For both sides.”

“Exactly,” said Cyclonus, poisonous frown more likely brought on by his agreement with Whirl than his disagreement with Skids and Rung. “You cannot accuse Megatron of lacking stamina.”

“But I can,” said Rung, “because he changed his goals. He wanted positive changes at the beginning, before the war started, but then he shifted his desires to destroying the Autobots, destroying Prime-”

“Because Prime and you Autobots were obstacles that stood in the way achieving his goal,” said Cyclonus.

“No, because he had an _ideal_ but he didn't have a _plan_. He didn't treat obstacles like obstacles. He treated them like _objectives_. And he became obsessed,” Rung continued. Tailgate glanced from Skids to Cyclonus, waiting for the rejoinder.

“Four million years,” said Cyclonus slowly, “you were _all_ obsessed.”

* * *

 

Whirl left the table, bluffing his way through an excuse about how he couldn't enjoy the rest of the meal since it was anatomically impossible for Cyclonus to chew with his mouth closed. Tailgate expected Skids and Rung to stay, and perhaps debate further, but they took their leave as soon as Skids had cleaned his plate.

“Skids seemed kind of offended,” Tailgate ventured.

“Skids is a bureaucrat.”

“He's a diplomat.”

“It's the same thing. Diplomacy is one bureaucracy shaking hands with another.”

Tailgate was quiet for a moment. “Isn't that sort of what the Ark-1 was supposed to do? Diplomatic work? Reaching out to other species?”

“That was six million years ago, when we still had something to offer the galaxy.”

Tailgate's visor brightened with surprise. “We still have plenty to offer. At least, I think so. I mean, most of the other species- that I know about, which isn't that many- they're all short-lived and mostly organic. We've been around so long we've recorded the evolution and extinction of entire civilizations. That's worth something.”

“Being historians?” Cyclonus' lip curled and he looked away.

“Well, what would you rather?”

The jet shifted in his seat and stood. “I need another drink.”

“Oh! Me too!”

Cyclonus grunted and stalked toward the bar. Ten seconds after he left, Whirl was back, clasping another plate of food firmly in both hands. He plopped down beside Tailgate.

“I thought you were leaving,” said Tailgate.

“I was gonna, but I saw you scared everybody away.”

“I think that was Cyclonus.”

“But you scared _him_ away, so you win!” Whirl chuckled and set to clumsily cutting up his food into pieces small enough for his intake to accommodate.

“That's your third plate.”

“What's your point? Atomizer and Trailcutter busted into Tyrest's pantry. To the victors go the spoils.”

“Yeah but- how do you even _hold_ that much food? You and Cyclonus and Skids ate like a month's worth of rations tonight.”

Whirl shrugged. “I tapped out my fuel reserves killing Legislators and ended up digesting my unused munitions to keep my auto-repair running while I waited _decades_ for First Aid to get around to fixing me up.” He saw Tailgate's blank look and tapped his guns. “These aren't _installed_ weapons, little guy. They're _integrated_. All natural. Part of me, spark-deep. You know? Cyclonus's are too, plus he's got thrusters to power. Skids's missiles and whatnot are all installed weapons, but he takes a lot of energy to run them since they're built out pretty close to his limit.” Whirl paused to down a spoonful of food. “Basically, Horn-head and I are re-arming ourselves and Skids is killing his energy debt. Ultra Magnus made you learn the whole Unabridged Autobot Code but nobody taught you basic physiology?”

“I guess he thought I didn't have to worry about it,” said Tailgate. He looked up as Cyclonus returned. The jet wordlessly passed Whirl a drink. Whirl received it and leaned over the glass, almost dunking his cephalic sensor prongs in the liquid.

Cyclonus snorted. “It's not poisoned.”

“So...” said Tailgate, fiddling with his straw. “If you'd had a choice, Whirl, would you have joined the Decepticons?”

Whirl glanced up from his drink, gaze darting between Tailgate and Cyclonus. “So that's how it is. You're gonna tag-team me now? What's your deal?”

“I missed the whole war and so did Cyclonus. Neither of us ever had to choose.”

“Well, if I had tried to join the Decepticons, Megatron woulda killed me. Or let his friends do it. Wasn't exactly an option.”

“No, but if that hadn't been an issue,” Tailgate pressed. “Would you?”

Whirl sat back and pushed his once-again empty plate away. “No.”

“So you always wanted to be an Autobot!” said Tailgate. He leaned forward, chin in his hands. “See, I guessed-”

“No,” said Whirl sharply, “if I'd had a choice? I'd had done with governments and movements and anything anyone promised me. So no, I wouldn't have chosen to be an Autobot _or_ a Decepticon. I'd've run.” He raised his helm and glared at Cyclonus. “Happy now?”

Cyclonus looked down at his drink. “Tailgate, how long did Ratchet give you before you have to go back to medibay?”

“I have another half an hour.”

“C'mon.” Cyclonus got to his feet. “Whirl, go get the Legislator swords you brought back and meet me in cargo bay two in ten minutes.”

“Why?”

The jet smirked. “Tailgate wants to learn about hand-to-hand combat. Let's spar.”

* * *

 

Tailgate leapt back just in time. Whirl charged past him, a sword in each hand, trailing energon from a re-opened gash in his upper arm, optic fixed on Cyclonus.

The old warrior smiled- more like one corner of his mouth hinted vaguely upwards- and sank into a defensive stance. Whirl threw himself at the other bot with furious glee, his blows more bludgeoning than slashing. Cyclonus handled his Great Sword with much more finesse, Tailgate decided.

Not that Tailgate was able to keep track of what was happening blow by blow. They were too fast for him. Tailgate just had an impression of speed and power, punctuated with Cyclonus' quiet huffs of exertion and Whirl's snarling. They were both intimidating on their own; pitted against each other, their ferocity and skill kept Tailgate hovering nervously near the door of the empty cargo bay.

It wasn't a real fight though. Tailgate could feel that, even when they drew blood. In fact, what had started as a demonstration had turned into... play. That was the only way Tailgate could describe it. They were playing. Very fiercely, and with dangerous toys, but this was a pleasant diversion for both of them.

Tailgate cringed as Cyclonus went flying into the bulkhead, then cringed again as the jet bashed Whirl upside the head with the hilt of his sword. Whirl managed to disarm him and there was a brief moment of thrashing and grappling. They over-balanced and crashed to the floor, still scuffling. Cyclonus came out on top, pinning the helicopter face-down in what looked like a rather uncomfortable position.

Whirl kicked and struggled for a few seconds, but he couldn't dislodge the heavier bot. His body went slack and Cyclonus backed off. Whirl rolled over and nodded to Tailgate.

“So did you learn anything?” he asked. Cyclonus extended a hand to him. Whirl ignored it and climbed to his feet.

“Yes. I'm never getting in a fight with either of you.”

“What's the point of learning how to fight if you're never gonna get into one?”

“Just in case,” said Tailgate.

“Learning requires practise to improve your skills,” said Cyclonus. “This is how you practise.”

“But you're just- right now you're not actually fighting, you're-” Tailgate queried his vocabulary for a word that wasn't 'playing', “-you're not trying to kill each other,” he finished weakly.

“Doesn't mean I'm not learning anything,” said Whirl. “Practise now means when I'm fighting for my life, I know a whole bunch of ways to not die.”

“Well, I dunno if I learned anything, really. You're too fast.”

“There,” said Cyclonus, “you did learn something.”

Tailgate's visor brightened. “It was scary but it was exciting too. Because you're both really good but I know you aren't trying to hurt each other so it was fun.”

Whirl and Cyclonus shared a glance over Tailgate's head.

“Yeah, well, I was holding back,” said Whirl.

* * *

 

Cyclonus appeared at Whirl's door and presented him with a large hexagonal bottle of black glass. It had an ornately hand-scribed label that bespoke of age and prestige, and a promising toxicant concentration.

Whirl's optic contracted. “What do you want?”

“Why did you help save Tailgate's life.” Cyclonus' question emerged unwillingly, his tone flat.

Whirl took the bottle and beckoned him inside the suite. Cyclonus followed. “It was Dai Atlas' observation.”

“It was your idea. You brought it to me on purpose.”

“Well, no one else had a brand-new spark or a surfeit of zealous conviction.” Whirl made space for the bottle in the window sill. He didn't sit down.

Cyclonus did sit. “I misjudged you,” he said and consciously fought back a reflexive lip-curl. “But I don't think you understand what altruism really is. I am not beholden to you and neither is Tailgate.”

Whirl chuckled softly. “You think I wanted a bit of leverage? You think I put the sword and the spark together and came up with a _currency_?” The chuckle turned dark. “Here's truth for you, old man.” Whirl crouched before Cyclonus and looked him in the eye. “If you had killed him, you would blame yourself and suffer and I would win. But you saved him, and you're going to love him more and more, and the more you love him and the longer you love him, the more it will hurt when he betrays you or he dies. And I'll still win,” Whirl whispered.

Cyclonus held his gaze for a long minute. Then he stood. “If you're playing by yourself, you can always win.”

He left.


End file.
